


Winter's daughter

by mynewnameisfluffy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:26:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2026749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynewnameisfluffy/pseuds/mynewnameisfluffy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ned brings home a bastard daughter, he decides to follow the old ways of the North, and betroths her to his son and heir, Robb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I found this prompt on the kink meme, and couldn't resist. I have lost the original prompt, but it goes somewhat like "What if the Targaryens were not the only ones to wed brother to sister?"

A royal retinue was due to arrive in Winterfell any minute now. Jehanne Snow stood out in the courtyard, with her betrothed on her right and her sister on her left. She was wearing a white dress, one of her nicest, and a grey fur cape with the direwolf of Stark embroidered by her sister Sansa, as a gift. Sansa was standing beside her, also with a grey cape, but with a light blue dress, to honour her Lady Mother. Robb was standing on her right, dressed in boiled leather and with steel on his hip, as befit his station of heir. Jehanne was not wearing her steel, as that did not befit a lady, in Lady Starks words. She could see that her father was looking forward to seeing his old friend again after all these years, where he stood, straight as a rod with his lordly face on.

 

Suddenly, there sounded a trumpet. The gates where opened. Jehanne could feel the tension rising in the courtyard.

 

The first persons to ride in are the Queens brothers, the Kingslayer and the Imp. After them comes a boy dressed in gold and red, with a crown rested atop his blond locks. Most likely the crown prince. After him comes a fat man dressed in black and gold, with a crown of antlers on his head. The King, although he looks like he borders on too fat to ride, never mind swing that monstous warhammer she’s heard so much about. The fat man managed with some difficulty to get off his horse. He came towards them, stopped in front of father, looked him up and down, and said:

“You’ve gotten fat.”

Ned laughed, and embraced the man who had ben his foster-brother in the Vale. Jehanne noted that the Queen was stepping out of a carriage too ornamental by far for the roads in the North, dressed in crimson, with an elaborate and impractical hairstyle full of twisted braids and ornaments. After her stepped a young girl who must have been her daughter, and her last son hung at her skirts. As the King let go of his long-time friend, he took in his soroundings, and the children.

“Lyanna?” the king breathed.

“No, my King. This is my natural daughter Jehanne, the betrothed of my heir, Robb.”

The Queen was obviously taken aback at this revelation.

“Your Grace.” Jehanne said, before dropping into a deep curtsey. The King stared at her, folowing her every move intently.

“This is Robb, my heir.” Lord Stark said, to divert his attention. Robb looked at the King with mistrust.

“Sansa, my daughter.” Sansa lowered her eyes, and gracefully curtseyed.

“Arya, my daughter.” Arya stared defiantly, before curtseying clumsily after an urging from Sansa.

“Brandon and Rickon, my two youngest.” Bran bowed as he had been instructed, but Rickon was too occupied with the sky to care.

“And Catelyn, my wife.” Lady Stark smiled, and dipped into a curtsey.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You should ave burried her on a hilltop, where she could have wandered in the countryside. Flown with the wind.”

“She is where she belongs. Where she wanted to be.” Ned answered his friend, who knelt on the floor before the likeness of his sister.

“And parts of her lives on.”

Ned was glad his friend was stood away from him, else he would seen the flash of alarm that must have gone over his features at the Kings words.

“In your daughter.” Robert must have taken Ned’s silence as confusion, rather than apprehension.

“Jehanne looks a good deal like my sister, yes.”

“Let us join our houses, like Lyanna and I once should. I have a son, you have a daughter. She would be the Queen of the seven Kingdoms.” Robert got up on unsteady feet, not as agile as he once had been.

“I must discus such a thing with my wife, before I decide, your Grace.”

“Don’t you dare ‘Your Grace’ me, Ned. Not you too. I need people around me whom I can trust, which is why I came here. Be my hand, Ned. Help me rule my kingdom.”

“It is an honour your Grace, one I am sure there are others more worthy of.”

“I am not trying to honour you, I am trying to get you to reign in my place. Cursed be the powers that put me on that throne. It has been naught but a pain.”

“It was you who put yourself on that throne. We should return, they must be waiting for us.”

Without further ado, Ned lead they way out of the crypts.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

All the King had done throughout the entire feast was grope serving women, make indecent japes, and leer at Jehanne. The Queen and her first-born let their distaste of the ordeal show, looking at everything but her, and the crown prince was not subtle in the way he made his disgust known. It went so far as to him nearly breaking the betrothal between him and Sansa, both because he made it known he was less than comfortable with marrying into a house with such traditions, and outright insulting her favourite sister, claiming she must have done something extremely bad to damage her virtues enough for her father to make such arrangements. She could see that Robb had to fight harder and harder to keep his temper in check, as the king got drunker and drunker, and his suggestions got lewder and lewder. The more the king gave suggestions about the lords right to the first night, the more the vein in Robbs forehead got enhanced. At the worst, right before Jehanne got them exused from the feast, she had to physically hold him back by digging her nails into his thigh. Not that he king’s oogling and commenting made her any less uncomfortable and affronted, but she knew that attacking him at the high table to defend her honour was a bad idea. Hopefully, once the royal retinue left with father, Sansa and Arya, she would never have to lay eyes on the disgusting man again. The fact that her grandfather made the outright stupid decision to marry his only daughter to this man instead of her older brother, Brandon, as was tradition and how sensible things were done, was a tragedy of immense proportions. This was not the man her father had told stories of, the one who was his brother in all but blood, who went to war to get her aunt back. This was a drunkard, a fool, and a pig. Not a worthy King at all. And his Queen was not better, on her high horse. The princess was nice, though. She conversed shyly with Jehanne over the table, as the courses were served. Asked about life in the North, how it was to fight with a sword, as Jehanne had been trained in that from an early age, since Robb needed a sparring partner and wanted it to be noone else. Jehanne made inquiries about life in the South, what Myrcella liked to read, and if she had a favourite song. Sansa was, at the beginning of the feast, mooning over Joffrey, but as the night wore on, and he made more and more comments on her family, she became more and more reserved. As the Kings comment of

“If sibling marrage is still in use, then ploygamy might also be a thought” while sending drunken, suggestive looks her way had Robb’s jaw clenching as he balled his fists, Jehanne arose quickly.

“I am feeling rather tired, and I am sure Rickon, Bran and Arya should be in bed. Will you help me, Robb?” she looked to him, pleadingly.

“Of course. Everything for you my love.” He kissed her cheeck, before going to gather up his sleeping younger brother, as Jehanne grabbed Arya by the shoulder and motioned for Bran to get a move on.

“But I don’t want to go to bed.” Arya complained.

“You are going to bed.”

As Jehanne ushered her younger siblings out of the hall, she could have sworn she could hear Robb grinding his teeth over the clamor of the feast.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jehanne closed the door quietly, after she had told Arya about the warrior queen Nymeria to get her to go to bed. She rested her head against the door. Breathed in. And out. In. Out. A hand was put on her shoulder. In. Out. Jehanne took the hand on her shoulder in hers, and started down the corridor, towards her room. A nook in the wall apeared, and before she could drag him any further, Robb ducked into it, pulling her with him. She turned around, put her head at Robb’s shoulder, and put her arms around his waist, holding him tight. He kissed the top of her head, and wrapped his arms around her protectivly. She nussled his neck. He kissed her cheek.

“You know, this might not be the best place for such activities. Someone might find us.” Jehanne said as Robb kissed down her jaw.

“Let the servants find us. We are doing nothing wrong, as we are to be husband and wife. A little practice have never hurt anyone.” He said, before claiming her lips in a brusing kiss. She nipped at his lower lip, and her hands went to his auburn curls. As he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, his arms encirceled her waist and dragged her flush against him. Her hands tugged at his hair in response and she moaned at the increased contact between their bodies.


	2. Chapter 2

“You will look beautiful in this, Jehanne.” Sansa commented, as she continued to stitch at the snowflake on Jehanne’s maiden cloak.

“I hope so, Sansa.”

Jehanne was sitting by the fire, embroidering on the hem of her cloak, making small weirwoods in delicate stitching. Sansa was sat next to her, working on the main part of the cloak Jehanne would be wearing during her wedding ceremony. She was glad she got to spend this time with her sister, since she would be going away soon, and would most likely not come home to Winterfell often. Jehanne would probably be married by the time Sansa was to become a princess of the seven kingdoms, so she would accompany Robb and her father down to Kingslanding for her wedding. Arya was, of course, hacking off on her own sewing, under the watchful eye of Septa Mordane. Jehanne could see her frustration, and just wished everyone wouldn’t pressure her into being something she wasn’t. Or compare her to herself and Sansa, as perfect examples to live up to. Princess Myrcella sat beside Sansa, working on a kerchief adorned with stags and lions, shyly conversing with herself and her sister from time to time, sending them shy glances and asking about the legends of the North, if we lived in companionship with snarks and grumpkins. In the middle of Jehanne’s story of what she knew of the wildlings, a direwolf started to howl. Ghost, Lady, and Nymeria answered, to all of their shock.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bran falls. In the middle of the day, when Sansa and Jehanne entertains the Princess in their solar, as Septa Mordane ran around the castle hunting Arya, who had used the confusion to slip out of the room. It takes a while before they are informed as of what has happened, when their Father comes to give them Rickon to look after. Maester Luwin is attending him, they are reassured, and Father assures them that Bran will be well, before he walks away to join Lady Stark in his room. Sansa and Jehanne takes turns entertaining Rickon and Myrcella. As the hours go by, Jehanne gets more and more agitated and restless, and as the evening meal approaches, she excuses herself to check up on the state of the kitchen. As she leaves the room, she looks back at her siblings and her future good-sister, Sansa holding Rickon in her lap as she converses happily with Myrcella. Jehanne closes the door silently, inhaling, steeling herself, and departs down the corridor with her composure as armour.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The King comes upon Jehanne on her own in a darkened corridor. As he assaults her, pawing at her breasts, trying to get under her skirts, panting in her ear, she whips out the knife she has taken to wear in case of a situation like this, even as Ghost starts to growl at the threat to her mistress.

“Take your hands off of me. Do not treat me like I could be a replacement of my aunt. I am to be the Lady of Winterfell, wife to the Warden of the North, and you will treat me with the respect that entails. King or not. I am not a common whore.”

The King struggles briefly with her grip, but she pressed the knife further into his many chins.

“And do not, in your wildest dreams believe that my aunt would have been happy with you. That you could _tame_ her wildness. She was not yours to tame. You would have taken her away from her rightful place as Lady of Winterfell, something my fool of a grandfather agreed to. It was her duty. And it is my duty.”

At this, she let go of the King, and with all the grace she could muster, went about her way to the kitchens, where she was headed. As she was about to round a corner, she turned her head and whispered viciously.

“You disgust me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bran does not wake, despite all of Maester Luwin’s efforts, Lady Catelyn’s prayers, and Old Nan’s stories. He will also never walk again, Maester Luwin predicts. As Lady Catelyn does not leave her son’s side, it falls to Jehanne to act as lady of the household. She had done this before, when Lady Catelyn was bedridden before and after Rickon was born, so she slid into the role easily. She was well taught. By Lady Catelyn, despite all her disapproval of her sons future bride. She avoided the King as much as possible, which was more often than she would have thought possible, as her Father entertained their liege. Hunting, talking, drinking, all of this was activities the King took great pleasure in. The brothel was also often visited, should the servant’s gossip be believed. It was surprisingly often reliable information. As the day for her Father and sisters departure for the court drew nearer, Jehanne became more and more involved in the running of the household, along with Robb, as his mother refuses to leave Brans side, and their Father has to prepare for his departure. It is tiring work, but rewarding, when their efforts makes the day run smoothly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Take care of them for me while I am gone.” Her father said to her, while holding her tight. “And help Robb, when you can. He will not ask for help, but he will need your support.”

“I will, father. I will miss you.” She had to fight to hold back her tears.

“Next time we see each other, we will speak about your mother. I am sure you will be a great lady of the castle. Make me proud.” He then kissed her forehead, and went to his horse. The party then started moving, taking her father and sisters with it, along with the life she had known. As she stood there, watching them ride out, she grabbed Robb’s hand. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

 

* * *

 

 

Jehanne stood outside the door to Bran’s chambers, gathering courage. She breathed deep, and before she could back out, she quietly opened the door. Lady Catelyn sat at her son’s side, holding his left hand in hers. Jehanne moved slowly to the other side of the bed, and took his right hand, before sitting down. As the minutes dragged on, and nothing other than their breathing gave away the people inside the room, Jehannne wondered if Lady Catelyn hadn’t seen her enter. She started stroking Bran’s knuckles, silently begging him to wake up.

“It should have been you who fell.” Lady Catelyn said, her eyes fixed on the form of her sleeping son.

“What?” Jehanne said.

“It should have been you. He did not deserve this. My son deserves a better wife, one that isn’t a bastard, or his sister. Had you fallen, you might never marry.” Jehanne had never heard anyone say something with that much venom in her entire life. She leaned forward, kissed Bran’s forehead, before releasing his hand and straightening to her considerable height, putting on her coldest, most ladylike face.

“I will be going back to your duties as lady of the household, Lady Stark. As the future Lady Stark, the duties have fallen to me in your unfortunate absence. If you will excuse me.”

Jehanne fought every urge she had to run, and strode gracefully out of the room and into the corridor, closing the door with less care than she opened it. Only when she had rounded the corner, did she allow herself to weep.


	3. Chapter 3

Jehanne had known whom she would marry for as long as she could remember. For some reason she did not understand then, her future marriage was of great interest of the whole of the North, and its Lords and Ladies were greatly pleased with whom her future Lord Husband was. Everyone except Lady Stark. Jehanne had overheard them arguing once, when she had wanted to ask her father for a story before bed. She had heard her father say, through the door:

 

“Ours is the old way, Cat, and I will not do the same mistake as my father. Robb and Jehanne will marry.”

“But what will the other lords say? Will your bannermen not turn against you?” Lady Stark sounded upset.

“Many a Lord has implored if I intend to keep with tradition. The only qualm they might have is that he should marry Sansa, but it has always been the eldest borns that marry.”

“What of the southron lords? Might they not have something against it?”

“They have nothing to say here in the North, nor have they protested in the past. I have decided, Cat, there is nothing you can say to sway me.”

 

 The fact that she was marrying Robb was no issue for her. She liked him well enough. He was nice to her, insisted she was to be his sparring partner and no-one else, as she was his wife, and the future Lady of Winterfell. When Theon came to live with them and he started giving her a hard time because she was both a girl and a bastard, Robb stood up for her. She and Theon still didn’t get along that much, not like he and Robb did, but he did not tease her anymore, at least.

 

Talk of her marriage had ben put on hold, for now, as she and Robb had their hands quite full with running the keep. It had been hard enough when Lady Catelyn was there, but now that she had gone to find the one who had tried to assassinate her son, and said son had woken up, it was even harder. Rickon was wild, almost feral, and Shaggydog made him worse. She had lost count of how many times she had to chastise him for setting the wolf on people who displeased him. Bran was coping with the loss of his legs as best as he could, which was badly. Even as he had Hodor to carry him, the fact that he could never climb again was crushing him. And the fact that neither Jehanne nor Robb now had much time to spend with either of them did not go down well with the two youngest Starks, with Bran muttering about “Lord Robb and Lady Jehanne.”

 

Robb was, at the moment, going over the ledgers again, after their talk with the steward yesterday about what needed to be stocked for winter. Jehanne was overseeing the making of the strong cider, and the distillation of the spirits in the brew house. The air was so hot her bodice clung to her torso, and the fumes were intoxicating, but the smell of cooking apples was heavenly. As she was directing two of the servants carrying a barrel of apples into the room, a messenger came running.

“My lady.” He said, winded, as he bowed before her. “You are required in the Great Hall. The Night’s Watch men have arrived, and brought with them Tyrion Lannister. Lord Robb would like you by his side as he greets them.”

After the man had finished speaking, Jehanne left Anne in charge of the proceedings, and ran to change her dress. She chose a simple but nice dress of grey wool, before hurriedly plaiting her hair and running for the hall.

 

What greeted her when she arrived was an entourage of four men dressed completely in black, Bran sitting with Summer by his side at the dais, Tyrion Lannister standing proud, and Robb glowering at him from their Lord Father’s seat. Jehanne strides up to his side, places her hand on his shoulder, and inclines her head towards their guests.

 

“Lord Tyrion, it is an honour to welcome you to Winterfell. I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

 

“Lady Jehanne. It was cold as the seventh hell, but the Wall was worth the journey.”

 

“I have heard it is a marvellous sight.”

 

“Indeed it is.” As Tyrion moves towards Bran, he says “Do you like to ride, Bran?”

 

“Yes. Well, I mean, I did like to.”

 

“The boy has lost the use of his legs.” Maester Luwin says.

 

“What of it? With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride.” Tyrion says.

 

“I’m not a cripple!” Bran blurts out.

 

“Then I’m not a dwarf. My father will rejoice to hear it. I have a gift for you.” He hands Bran a roll of parchment. “Give that to your saddler. He’ll provide the rest.” He looks to Jehanne “You must shape the horse to the rider. Start with a yearling and teach it to respond to the reins and to the boy’s voice.”

 

”Will I really be able to ride?”

 

”You will. On horseback you will be as tall as any of them.”

 

”Is this some kind f trick? Why do you want to help him?” Robb says. Jehanne squeezes his shoulder in warning.

 

”I have a tender pot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things.”

 

”You have done our brother a kindness my Lord. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours.” Jehanne says, hoping to avoid adding more insult to the Lord Lannister. Why Robb is doing this is beyond her.

 

”I thank you for your hospitality my Lady, but there is a brothel outside your walls. There I’ll find a bed, and both I and your brother will sleep easier.”

 

As he is escorted out by Theon, Jehanne rounds on Robb.

 

”Are you trying to foster more bad blood between our families? Why were you so discourteous?”

 

”It was a Lannister who sent a dagger after Bran!”

 

”We do not know that! And even so, we do not know if he had anything to do with it. You are to always be courteous to those visiting under our roof, as a proper lord. Use your head, and think before you speak, as what you say may have consequences, as acting Lord of Winterfell.” When Robb refused to look at her, she sighed. ”I will return to the brew house.”

 

She stood straight, righted her dress, and walked towards the door. On the way she ruffled Bran’s hair, and, as she exited the hall, she was sure she could feel Robb’s eyes burrow into her back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
